


Down, Down, Down

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Female Reader, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Self-Hating Reader, Suicidal Thoughts, depressed reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 17:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14698650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: On a rough night, you meet a man named Steve Rogers who just wants to help, maybe as much for himself as for you. But certain things can’t always be helped. And sometimes that’s okay.





	Down, Down, Down

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for myself and thought I shouldn’t post it. Then I realized that’s kind of hypocritical because I like when other people write this sort of thing, so here it is. Your mileage really will vary with this one. Depression is a fickle beast that manifests in about a gazillion different ways, and just being miserable for whatever reason is its own deal entirely. If this speaks to you, cool. If it doesn’t, that’s cool too. *PLEASE* mind the tags.

 

 

 

“Hi.”

You look up and blink some life back into your… well, there’s no point, really. But right now there’s a man smiling patiently at you. “Can I help you?” you ask. You can be human for a little bit longer. You think.

“Oh, I was just…” He looks awkward and gestures at the chair next to you. “May I join you?”

There are two other empty tables nearby, and the area as a whole is very quiet, even for a library. Whatever scam this guy is running, you want no part of. You have enough shit to deal with. “No.”

He frowns and looks a little confused. Well, he’s a handsome, well-built dude. He probably doesn’t hear ‘no’ all that often. “Look…” he says and sits down anyways. You look at one of the empty tables and wonder if you’re the one who’s going to have to move.

He leans in and you jerk back. He looks surprised– _seriously_? “Sorry, sorry,” he says and lowers his voice. “I just…I thought I heard you crying earlier, and I accidentally saw what you were writing just now, and I wanted to ask…are you okay?”

So he saw your suicidal scribbling and heard you hiccupping in that chair in the corner. You’re sure you were nearly silent. Self-righteous creeper. Also: what a dumb fucking question. Is he pretending not to know? Are you supposed to pretend? You can pretend.

“Peachy,” you say and stare at the page. Nothing else is coming. Which is good, when a hand is held out to you right over your notebook. Like a fucking dog just waiting to shake.

You give the guy your best unimpressed look. He is unaffected. “My name is Steve. Steve Rogers.”

You have about a hundred ways to respond to that and none of them are nice. You go with the least offensive one. “I’m not interested in meeting new people.”

He loses some of the friendly and gains an edge. “Because you won’t be around?”

“No, I’m just a bitch who hates people,” you say. You grab your things and go over to another table.

He follows you. Because of course he does. “Hey, strange man following a random girl, this is called ‘harassment.’”

“These are extenuating circumstances,” he says. “Do you have somebody you could call?”

“Why would I call someone when I want to be alone?” You try to bring forth some anger, but there’s just a spark, and then nothing. You sigh and start packing up.

“What’s your name?” Steve asks, still following you.

“Nunya.”

“What?”

“None ya business,” you mutter and try to make the door slam in his face. He catches it and then starts walking next to you.

“You can give me a fake name if you want,” Steve says. “Just something for me to call you.”

You roll your eyes. “You can call me ‘Bitch’.” Why not.

“Why would you want me to call you that?”

“It’s accurate.”

“I’m not calling you that.”

“Suit yourself.” You keep walking and so does he. You don’t want him to know where you live, so you wander.

Steve doesn’t stay quiet nearly as long as you’d like him to. He suggests a generic name which you meet with an unimpressed “meh.”

He rattles off some more names that you brush off or ignore.  Eventually he says, with a smile, “Eeyore.”

You’ve stopped responding by this point so you don’t rise to the bait. Let it be a joke to him. Why not.

“That seems a little mean, I guess. Sorry.” He’s actually quiet again. Of course, nothing good can stay. “How about a general term of endearment? ‘Sweetheart?’”

Your nose crinkles. “Unless you’re a woman or old man, don’t call me ‘sweetheart’. It’s patronizing and gross.”

“Noted,” he says. He flashes a smile at you. “I’m in my nineties though; that counts as old, right?”

“Sure.” What a dumb joke.

“Seriously!” He actually fishes out his driver’s license. It looks legit– until you get to date of birth.

“This is well made. Except you ruined it with your dumb old man joke.” You hand it back and keep walking.

“It’s real,” he insists.

“Sure thing.” You look him up and down. “You look old enough to drink. Why do you need a fake ID? Are you secretly a serial killer on the lam?”

“Why do I get the feeling you’d be more interested if I was?” he asks dryly.

“I’m willing to negotiate,” you say. “You can keep me alive for no more than one week. Get all those terrible impulses out of your system, then kill me. Win-win, right?”

“You’d really let someone hurt you like that?” he asks. He sounds sad.

“Why not.” You add: “That’s rhetorical, by the way.”

“I figured,” he says. He digs out another ID card. “Here. Hopefully this is proof that I’m not a serial killer.”

You barely glance at it. It also has that ridiculous date. “I don’t know what a military ID is supposed to look like. I’m sure it’s a lovely replica.”

“It is nice, isn’t it?” He puts it back. “They gave it to me since I’m technically retired from service.”

“Right. Because you’re old.” You spy a bench in the distance and head towards it. “What war did you serve in? World War I?”

“Two,” he says. “I’m not _that_ old.”

He’s obviously joking. You try, but you can’t force the same levity in your tone. “Right. Real big difference.”

“Exactly.”

You sit and he stands, digging through his wallet. Just looking at him makes you tired. “I’m not a racist cop; you don’t have to show me every form of identification you own.”

“Just this last one,” he says and holds out what looks like a work ID. “It’ll explain the date.”

You sigh but take it and read it. It’s for SHIELD. And once you get to Steve’s title, it clicks.

“Oh.” You think you should be more…something. Surprised. Awed. Embarrassed? But you feel nothing in particular. So you hand it back to him.

He sits on the opposite end of the bench and allows for some quiet. You briefly think that maybe he’ll get bored. Hopefully he’ll get bored and leave you be. But it’s barely a moment before you’re swimming in the dark end of your head again.

Something touches your shoulders and you flinch so violently it rips through your body, which is stiff enough that you must have been sitting for some time. Steve is there, lifting his hands from the jacket he just draped over you.

“I see,” he says with a measured lightness. “You’re trying to freeze yourself to death.”

“Is it cold?” You hadn’t really noticed. Now, with the jacket, you get it by comparison.

“A little,” he says. He’s not quite as upbeat and you steal some glances. He’s stiff and looking like he would rather be anywhere else.

Right. Crashed in icy waters, was frozen for years. Of course he doesn’t like the cold. You’d tell him to go home but he seems intent on not listening. You want to tell him you’ll be…well, not fine, but alive. You’ve been here before. You’ll be here again. But you doubt he’ll listen.

“What’s it like?” you ask. “To drown?”

He doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t call you a bitch and bail. He looks like he’s actively considering your question. “It’s more painful than you’d expect,” he says. “It burns, and the panic is…it’s hard to explain.” The obnoxiously bright streetlamp on the other side of him illuminates his profile at the edges, and shadows drape over the rest of him. You can see him swallow. “I thought I was ready to die. But there’s always this– this burst near the end, when I want to live.” He looks right at you. “Even when I think dying is all I want to do.”

“Hm.” You’re not convinced– everyone handles it differently. But he’s shivering and trying to be a stoic noble manly man, and you might be a bitch but you’re not out to hurt someone else.

You stand and drape his jacket over his shoulders, and start walking again. He’s quiet with you and you leave it be. Either he doesn’t want to talk anymore or he’s accepted that you don’t. You go until you find a 24-hour coffee shop and duck in. You order yourself a drink but before you can get the money out, Steve squeezes in, orders for himself, and gives his card to a man who could not give less of a shit. You merely shrug, wait for your drink, and go to sit. There’s a small couch in a back corner, with a table just in front of it, and you sit at one end.

Steve sits next to you and lays out a muffin on the table, which he nudges over towards your side. You’re not hungry, but you take a little piece to nibble on if only to appease him. He looks pleased. At least one of you is. At least one of you can be happy; at least…

The crumb in your throat feels like a boulder, but you don’t choke when you swallow it.

Steve is closer now, side and leg pressed against yours. You turn to lean into him and he wraps his arms around you. You’re too far gone for a hug to fix anything, but here you are, and here you’ll stay.

“Why?” you ask. “Why do this?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, holding you close. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just selfish.”

You start to shake. “What does that even _mean_? How does this affect you at _all_?”

“I don’t know. It just hurts to think that…that I just let it happen. I can’t. I can’t do nothing.”

Nothing is a word, a thing, a presence that you know well. Nothingness is all you are, right now. Nothing is working. Nothing will fix you. You know this. And yet you know you’ll be here when the sun comes up. And probably tomorrow. And likely the day after that. “Why?” you grit out. “Why do I have to be here? Why do I have to _stay_?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.” He grips you tight. “I think that’s something we have to find out for ourselves.”

“What happens if we don’t? What happens if we never find it?”

“I think…” He clears his throat. “I like to think that there’s not just one thing. Maybe some people have that– a family, a life goal– but sometimes it can be something small. A holiday you’re excited for. A birthday you’d like to hit. Maybe even just a really good meal you’re looking forward to having. They’re like stepping stones you lay out for yourself, and they can be just as important as a road someone else built. Sometimes even more.”

You’re drained, and apparently so is he– together, you both slump. When he stirs, the slip of sky you can see outside is beginning to lighten. You take a deep breath, slipping back into your skin to face another day.

“I know this isn’t your first time and you probably didn’t need me.” He gives you one more firm hug before he pulls back. He leaves his hand on your shoulder. “Thanks for indulging me.”

You think you should smile, but you’re too tired. Still. “You should probably see someone about that hero complex,” you say as he stands. “The stress alone is going to kill you.”

He laughs, though his eyes glisten in the light. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He extends his hand, fingers curling gently towards his palm. “May I walk you home?”

You place your hand in his and allow him to walk with you. When you arrive home he lets you go in peace, but gives you his number before he leaves. You don’t expect to see him again, but he is a nice man, and you wish him well.

 

You muddle through the next few days, as you are wont to do, weathering the ebb and flow. It’s beginning to even out, you think, and since you’re up early you go take a walk in the park while it’s not so loud.

So there you are, minding your business, when suddenly you hear a familiar voice say, “On your left!” just before a giant blond blur goes racing past.

Steve looks back to smile at you, and you, to be polite, smile back. It’s a tiny thing that probably looks as dumb as it feels, but his smile grows bright enough to blind and he shoots off ahead with a sudden burst of energy.

Two other men, running at slightly more than a jog, look at you oddly as they pass. Their faces are vaguely familiar so you assume they’re his friends. They don’t say anything to you, so you ignore them.

You start to wish you could ignore Steve, when he passes you twice more with the same enthusiastic phrase. Why is he so excited to be on your left? Why do you have to know where he is at all? Does he think you’ll suddenly walk in front of him? Is this a thing normal runners do or is he just weird?

It’s annoying.

So when he comes around the third time you reach out, intending to swat at him. You don’t _actually_ expect to hit him, but your hand collides with his arm like you just smacked a brick wall, only the brick wall yelps. _Yelps_. Like a Pomeranian.

Two bellowing laughs echo behind you and you and Steve both look to see his two friends collapsing over each other in hysterics. You shake out your throbbing fingers and Steve whines, “Come on, it wasn’t _that_ funny.”

“What,” you say, “was that _noise_?”

He’s not as red as he should be, from all that running, but the blush takes care of that.

“Hello new best friend!” one of the men says and ambles over to you, extending his hand. “My name is Sam Wilson.”

You shake his hand and introduce yourself. Steve brightens. Oh, right; it’s the first time he’s heard your name. The other man comes over and introduces himself as, “James Barnes but call me Bucky; all my friends do.” Steve rolls his eyes but he hasn’t stopped smiling yet, so you accept that you’re expected to call a grown man ‘Bucky’ now.

“You Steve’s library friend?” Sam asks as easily as anything.

You’re on guard, but Steve must not have told them much about that night, because Sam doesn’t…he doesn’t _look_ at you like you’d expect if he knew. Neither does Bucky. “I guess so.”

“Hey, do you want to join us for breakfast?” Steve asks.

“Um…no thanks,” you say. “I’m…I’m not great company right now.”

“Doll, you could order five plates, dump ‘em on the floor, and I’d still want to pay for your meal,” Bucky says, swinging his arm around your shoulders. “That was _fantastic_.”

With mild amusement, you allow yourself to be shanghaied into having breakfast with them. And Sam and Bucky must know something, because they allow you to be utterly silent and don’t seem to expect anything from you. All three men chat, they share with you, but if you don’t respond, nobody gets upset, or insists, or drags the mood down.

They just let you _be_.

You breathe into your coffee cup and try to cement this moment into your mind. A stepping stone. One worth remembering.

After breakfast they have somewhere to be and you’re drained by the noise and socialization. As nice as it was, you need a nap now.

Steve and Bucky say their goodbyes and go on ahead. Sam hangs back to give you a hug, and a business card of his. On the back is a list of names and phone numbers.

“No one’s expecting you to do anything,” Sam says. “Least of all Steve. And my feelings won't be hurt if you throw this in that trashcan over there. Sometimes, though, it’s good to have back-up, and it can be hard to ask. I just wanted to give you some options.”

You consider the offer and slip the card into your pocket. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. “Have fun at your meeting.”

He grins. “I’ll see you later,” he says and hurries to catch up to them.

You turn to go on your way, and take a deep breath. Later. It’s an option.

You’ll keep an open mind.


End file.
